The Girl on Baker Street
by Aio Puddle
Summary: Persi needs Sherlocks help. She's scared, helpless, and in so deep that even SHE doesn't know what to do. Will Sherlock see? Or will he just see the same old, evil Persi?
1. Prologue

Sherlock watches from the window.

Persi walked down the unseasonably cold and grim Baker Street.

Heels clipping the uneven path of the pavement.

Hair falling accross her face, freeing from the pins.

Dress dirty from the fall.

Black lines dripped across her cheeks.

Bloody grazes on her arms and legs.

The black car pulls up.

She steps inside.

"Persi. I told not to go to him"

She looks towards the man.

This was her final day.

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><p><em>AN: I'm a sucker for short openings :)<em>


	2. Young

_Author's Note: First full chapter, enjoy! This story is set sometime after Reichanbach, so the main people (John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, ect ect), know Sherlock is alive, but it's not a public thing. Yay. This is also mainly introduction to Persi_

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><p><strong>Young <strong>

6 months earlier

"Sherlock, I haven't been to a club in about 10 years. We look ridiculous"

Sherlock walk casually up to the bouncers of the nightclub. They weren't asked for any proof of age. Of course.

Sherlocks latest case was about a young man who vanished from a nightclub. This nightclub. "The Cherry Picker". He told his friends he was going home, but CCTV never saw him leave the club. Mystery was what intreged Sherlock.

The music was too loud. Hard, thumping bass that shook your bones. Sherlock was off in a flash, gliding around the dancers and the heavily drunk teenagers. John, eagerly trying to keep up, copying his every move so he could pick up on watch Sherlock was seeing.

20 mintues went by, and John was exhausted. He pulled on Sherlocks arm to stop him from running off. "Sherlock!" he yelled over the loud music.

"I can't hear you!" Sherlock screamed back

"LET'S GET A DRINK!" He used the universal sign for "a drink" and the headed to the bar.

I was full of people flirting. John felt inadiquette. A bunch of beautiful, young 18 to 30 years flirt at the bar of a nightclub. He couldn't figure out how that work, really. He couldn't remember how he did it. How could you flirt with someone in here? You can't even hear them. He couldn't even get the barman to hear him.

Sherlock paced up and down the bar, looking for some clues. He was stumped. He had no idea what had happened. He was NOT prepared to let John know that, though. He stared at every detail. Was it a girl? Everyone here is flirting with each other. How dull.

He found himself studying a couple talking at the bar, trying to see a typical pattern.

Girl, about 20. Long black hair. Slim. Short. Reasonably modest dress (but some girls in here were wearing clothes that you would struggle to call underwear). Has her back turned, so can't study her face.

Boy. 21. Has a birthday badge. Too drunk. Maybe doesn't know what he's doing.

Girl puts hand to mouth. Takes sip of boy's drink, but not before blowing through the straw. Hand's drink back to boy. Girl is spiking his drink. Maybe she spiked missing boy's drink?

Sherlock's quick deduction lead him to grabbing the drink off the boy, while simltainiously pulling the girl around.

"What are you...? Oh, holy shit" the girl proclaimed. She whiped off her high heels and ran for the door. Sherlock chasing her through the crowd. John sees his friend run past, signs, and puts dwn the drinks he has just paid for, and runs after Sherlock. Just a typical day for Dr. Watson, always 2 steps behind Sherlock. In this case, quite literally.

Sherlock grabbed the girl by the arm and escorted her to a taxi. He pushes her in, and climbs in next to her. John scambled into the taxi, before Sherlock had forgotten he was even there.

Sherlock stared at the girl. The girl stared at her knees. John was tired, his ears were pounding and he couldn't be bothered with all the mystery. "Sherlock, are you going to explain?"

He continued to stare at her. "What were you doing in there?". The girl shrugged her shoulders, eyes to her knees. "Aren't you 16 years old or something now?"

The girl snapped her head around. Her face looked almost disgusted. "It's my birthday. 22. You may be a so called 'great detective', but you really don't know anything, do you?"

"I don't consern myself with such trivial things, unless they're important. Whether or not it's your birthday doesn't matter to me."

"Then what does? Why am I here?"

Sherlock leaned towards the girl. To John, it looked as if he was going to loose his temper. "You were drugging that boy! It was you who kidnapped Shaun Temple, wasn't it!"

The girl turned to the window, a small crooked smile crept on her lips. "It was kidnap...as such"

Sherlock let out a long sign. "You know I have to phone Mycroft"

The girl giggled and turned to Sherlock. This girl had the look of pure evil in her eyes. "Oooh, what's _Mycroft _going to do?"

John could see that this girl was something more than just the kidnapper they were looking for. She had control over him. And Mycroft by the sounds of things. But something told John that Sherlock didn't even have a clue she was behind it.

"Where's the boy?" Sherlock questioned.

"Which boy?" The girl teased.

"Shaun. Temple." Sherlock was about to snap.

"Oh. Him. He's proberbly still in his garden shed. Thats were I left him, because I didn't have any hair pins to pick his front door."

"John, phone Lestrade"

The three people walked up the stairs to 221b. John whispered to Sherlock, "Sherlock, who the hell is this girl"

Sherlock paused. "Have you even seen 'The Omen'?"

"...Yes"

"It's based on a true story"

They walked into the living. The girl made herself comfy on the sofa, as Sherlock went into the kitchen.

John stood awkwardly in the room. This was his home for goodness sake. This was a girl who was 17 or 18 years younger than him.

But she just sat and smiled at him. She looked almost innocent. But, John quickly remembered what he'd just heard. She kidnapped a young man. She nearly kidnapped another. Sherlock described her as "The Omen"

"Are you not going to ask me my name? I mean, you're going to get a hold of DI Lestrade at some point, and you don't even know my name."

John felt a small bead of sweat on his forhead. She was sinister. "Err, umm, wh- it's boiling in here, I'm going to open a window..."

"Oh wow, you trust me enough to know I won't jump out of the window when you're not looking"

"Actually, it's a perfectly mild temperature in here."

"My name is Persi. Or Persephone. Which ever, they're both the same"

"Ah, so you call yourself 'Persi' now." Sherlock strolled into the living, having gain all his cold, regular composure back.

"I've always been called Persi!" She screamed. It seamed that these too people rubbed each other up the wrong way.

"Don't shout like a little girl, Persephone," Sherlock felt her had some control back over her, as he started taking the piss, "Your twenty two now, remember?"

Persi reached into her hand bag, and quickly snapped around, longing a penknife to Sherlock's throat. Persi was not one to hold her temper back. If she felt like shutting someone up, she'd do it the easy way. Make it unable for them to talk at all.

"Now, now, Persi. Don't want Mycroft finding you like this." Sherlock threatened. Persi stormed backwards, and sat but on the sofa.

"You havn't actually called Mycroft, have you?" Persi said, worry tracing her voice.

"He's on his way right now" taunted Sherlock

"Please, just let me run, I won't do anything bad again! Please, Sherlock! Please!"

"Maybe we should give her a chance, Sherlock" John said softly. He siad it, half with sympathy, because she sounded so lot and helpless, and scared. Who wouldn't be frightened of Mycroft. He said it half out of fear, because she was one hell of a scary young woman.

"John, she's a liar. She just doesn't want a telling off. It's certainly not my job, so I'll leave it to my brother." Sherlock said with a smile, looking directly at Persi.

The door swung open. Mycroft Holmes, elder brother of Sherlock, entered to room with such power and grace, you'de have mistaken him for royality

"Mycroft! Please take your vermain out of my flat. Thank you. Goodnight. Please don't go stealing any children on the way home, you witch." Sherlock almost sang his word, giddy with the fact Persi was not going to be spared by Mycroft.

"Persephone. Get. Downstairs. The Car. Now!" Mycroft ordered Persi. She didn't hesitate one second.

Before she went out the door she shouted back "You pay for this, Sherlock Holmes!" And with that she was down the stairs in a flash.

Mycroft stood tall next to the door frame. He coughed, embarrassed. "I'm very sorry for any incovience that Miss Persephone has caused you this evening."

John answered "Oh no! She help Sherlock solve a case, didn't she, Sherlock?"

Mycroft looked confusingly at this younger brother, "Really?"

"Oh yes," replied Sherlock, "She was our criminal"

Mycroft looked so angry, a vain may have burst in his temple. "PERSEPHONE!" he yelled as he stormed out of the flat.

There was something about Persi that made the Holmes men almost tip over the edge. They didn't act like the collected selves when she was around. John was way to curious not to ask.

"Well, she really rocked your boat!" John joked.

"Quite" Sherlock replied, almost whispered, staring at the fire place.

"So, who was she then, Persi? Or Persephone?" John questioned.

Sherlock, still staring at the fireplace. He hesitated to answer Johns question. Persi was not a person often spoken about by neither him nor Mycroft.

He realised why the fire place didn't look right. "SHE TOOK MY SKULL!"

"What?" John was confused, "How the hell did she take a skull with out getting noticed. How can she out smart you, Sherlock? Only you could our smart you"

"I knew I should have brought her here!"

"Who is she, Sherlock?"

"Mycroft's daughter! My neice! The dirty, caniving, little wench of a niece!"


	3. Claire

**_It's late I'm inspired. No Sherlock in this, but I wanted to go through Mycroft and Persi's relationship. Sorry about the lateness. Trying to make the story line run smoothly is quite hard for what I'm doing. I wanted to explain Persi's mother as well. R&R, because Godtiss is amazing!_**

Persi sat quietly on the old fashioned sofa. She stared at her knees. A bad habit she had aquired from growing up. She was always quite naughty growing up. She always did as her mother told her. Her mother was the better disipliner, because Persi never wanted to disapoint her. Her father, on the other had, was too strict on Persi. He always had high expectations of her, and she was never one to conform to society.

There must have been a lot of similarities between Mycroft and Sherlock. Ones that Mycroft tried to hide, and ones Sherlock embraced, because Persi was like Sherlock in many ways. Maybe that was the reason Mycroft could never quite stand his only child most of the time. He thought he'd seen the last of Sherlocks uncontroble, smart arse ways, never being able to behave himself properly. Even when Sherlock was a grown up. Seeing Persi growing up to be the same person as Sherlock irritated him. But nonetheless, his daughter was Persephone Marie Holmes, and she will conform to what he think suitable for an English young lady.

Mycroft paced back and forth infront of the sofa in which Persi sat. "Persephone..."

Persi rolled her eyes and finally looked up at her father, "Oh, God, can you not just call me Persi?"

"No. I named you, I will call you the name I chose." Mycroft stop and stood in front of his daughter. He looked down on her, both literally and metaphorically, hand held behind his back, in a disaproving manner. "Do you know that when you were twelve I acused your mother of having an affair?"

"No, and I know she wouldn't have. For some, unknown, ridiculous reason, mum loved you."

"Yes, and believe it or not, that reason was unknown to me, too" he looked away momenterally, struck with a memory. "What I'm leading to is that as you were growing up, I found it hard to believe you were my child. You were so reckless, you never listened. All I saw was Sherlock. All I see is Sherlock. I was convinced you were not my child. I thought you were his."

"Really? Because Sherlock would have been the ultimate teen Dad. Imagine, becoming a father at 14"

"Perfectly possible. You're mother was 10 years old than me, why not go younger?"

"Because mum was a hippy holding onto her youth, not a pedophile."

"Yes, well, I've seen Sherlock through his teenage years, and they weren't a lot of fun, and let me assure you, I knew a girl would be harder, but imagine Sherlock as a girl. How difficult would that be? Mood swings, aggrivation, and all of Sherlocks traits along with it. It would be hell. It is Hell. It's you."

Persi stood up and squared up to her Father. He was a 6 inches taller than her, even with heels on. She tried to intimidate him, but it never worked on Mycroft. Sherlock was the only one who was intimadated by the 5 foot 2 "omen", as Sherlock liked to call her. "Don't call me him. I'm myself. I take after you, therefore, by default, I may be similar to him, but I am so different. I have control over my emotions. He says he does, but he can't help himself, you know that. You're better than he is, I reluctantly say. You can't even so compassion to your own daughter."

"I," The words choked in Mycroft throat. He knew how he felt. Of course he felt the typical emotion onw would feel for his daughter, but he found them hard to say as time passed.

"You what, Dad? Go on" Persi challenged him, thinking that she knew he didn't love her. She thought he never had.

Mycroft sat on the sofa slowly. He stare for a few seconds, blankly, towards the burgandy wall, heavily clad in Rembrant paintings. Persi's favourite painter when she was a child. She tried to recreate them as a child. Well, as best she could the tools she had. Lined A4 paper, unsharpened pencils and blunt Crayola crayons. He felt himself almost well up. He took back his composure, and, without looking at her, ordered Persi to sit back down.

She took a seat, leaving an uncomfortable gap. She wasn't ready to listen to what ever her Father had to say. Whatever it was, it was proberbly not worth listening to.

"I do care," Mycroft began. He took a breath, "I was very young when I met your mother. I was 21, she was 31. She was a free spirit. Very hard to understand, but that's what made her interesting. Clair was so peculiar, she was just this vibrant spark to which everyone was drawn to. But some how, she was interested me. She said I was not what 'normal people' liked, and that's why we were ment to be together. Her words. 'We're ment to be together. We're going to get married. I will be Mrs Claire Holmes. We will have a bunch of children and they will be brilliant.' And this was just after one date."

He paused, remembering Claire back then. Long, dirty blonde hair. Soft face with beautiful lips. Big hazel eyes. Too beautiful for him, in his own opinion.

He continued, "After 7 months we we're married and 11 months after that, you were born. You don't understand how pround I was the day you were born. I cried,"

Persi looked over to her Father, with and awkward crooked smile, in shock that her Father cried. Cried for her.

"Don't look too surprised. Many new fathers cry at their childrens births. I remember thinking 'Thank God it's a girl'. I called your Grandparents house, and Sherlock answered. No 'Hello', only 'Is it a girl?'. I said yes, and he just hung up the phone. He was 13, and already wanted to have an apprentice. But you look so much like your mother. It was moving. As you grew up, I struggled. Your mother loved being a homemaker. I was a young man trying to balance a career and fatherhood. It was hard. And then... Then your mother got sick, and the Doctors told us straight she didn't have long. You where 13. I didn't know what to do with you. When Claire passed, I couldn't take it. I saw her in your face everyday. Whenever I look at you, I see my failure. How distant we are. How I couldn't say her. I wish it never happend."

Persi was upset. She didn't want to look like her mother. It wasn't just Mycroft who saw her in Persi everyday. Persi did too. It broke her heart hearing all this for her cold, distant father. She didn't want to know it. She brushed it off. He was still the same. He could have at least pretended to love her. He couldn't even manage pretend love.

"You wished I hadn't happend" She stood up, and walked out. "Bye, Mycroft" she left an slammed the door behind her.

Mycroft was left raw. He'd done, as much as was able for him, poured his heart out to his only child, and she had left him there. I knew he would never make things right. But at least she knew.

He was left distraught with the memory of his dead wife. The only woman he had loved. His Claire.


End file.
